


Do Not Disturb

by dickviolin



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Anal sex (mention), Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11024004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickviolin/pseuds/dickviolin
Summary: "If the PM's giving me a blowjob I always put a sign up."And the prize for the cheesiest title goes to yours truly.In which Ollie overhears the Prime Minister sucking off Malcolm Tucker. Except he doesn't...Hit me up onTumblr





	Do Not Disturb

Ollie Reeder was not an idiot. Certain members of his department did like to call him that, but he wasn’t. He got into Cambridge, for Christ’s sake. He was not so stupid that when one of Malcolm’s minions- a hollow-eyed woman who barely looked up from her Blackberry to bark instructions at him- told him to go to Malcolm’s office that he thought he was there for anything other than a bollocking. Still, schlepping across to No. 10 to be given a verbal battering seemed a bit much. The man had a landline- he did some of his best work on the phone.

But a summons from Malcolm was like a court summons. You could run all you like, but it would catch up with you soon enough.

 

It seemed a bit strange that once he got to the bit of No. 10 that everyone referred to as Malcolm’s lair (a warren of corridors, anonymous doors and fancy chairs designed to terrify baby ministers into submission and which allowed Malcolm to spring out at any point like a horror movie villain) there was practically no one around. Someone whose name had at one point come up for transport secretary at the last reshuffle was asleep on a sofa, but other than that, Ollie was alone.

 

It was strange, not least because it was the night of Tom’s glorious ascension, an ascension which was taking a bit longer than expected because _nobody fucking liked him_. He would expect No. 10 to be a hive of activity, or at least a bit more lively than this.

Ben Swain had texted him on the way over. Something about something Dan Miller was doing; it didn’t matter right now. Malcolm had summoned him. Ollie rounded another corner into the corridor at the end of which was Malcolm’s office. He checked the time. 3:36 AM. This was a pisstake of a night. He got to the door of the office and-

 

Hooked over Malcolm’s doorknob was a sign, evidently pre-assembled in a loving, _Blue Peter_ -esque way with a length of parcel string and some card. In Malcolm’s unmistakable scrawl were the words ‘do not disturb’.

 _Do not disturb_. Ollie straightened up, looked again at the door to see if it would divulge anything else, and paused. _Do not disturb_. Like in a hotel room, when you-

“Jesus, fuck-” Ollie tensed. That was Malcolm’s voice. That was _definitely_ Malcolm’s voice, but it was Malcolm’s voice like he’d never heard it before. It sounded like it was being torn out of him, breathless, and a little higher-pitched than normal.

“Ohhh, _fuck_ , you’re so fucking- ah- so fucking good…” All of a sudden, it dawned on him. He was listening to Malcolm getting a _blowjob_.

 

This meant two things, two very interesting and important things at the same time. Firstly, that that bitch from Malcolm’s team had played a sadistic prank on him, that she _knew_ Malcolm was in his office with someone likely to want to suck his cock and had sent little fluffy DoSaC boy Ollie Reeder, Ben’s Glenn, off to walk in on him. And secondly- and perhaps more thrillingly- Malcolm was taking time out of the busiest night in a very long time to get a blowjob. Was it _because_ it was such a busy night? Was oral sex the key to making sure he didn’t expire from a massive aneurysm? Did he have people on hand to suck him off every time his blood pressure got a little high? Or was this a regular thing? Was Malcolm getting blowjobs left, right and centre? Perhaps _everyone_ is at it, Ollie thought. Perhaps Glenn throws one up Terri every morning. Perhaps Whitehall is full of sex-crazed maniacs having it away 24/7.

No, he decided. That couldn’t be true. He would have heard about it by now. This was Malcolm getting a perfectly innocent stress-relieving blowjob on during a very taxing time. And that led to the final point: just _who_ was doing the blowing?

He cycled through the options in his mind. Sam? Surely not. She was with someone else’s PA, or at least she had been at the Christmas party, and anyway, she and Malcolm weren’t like that. He hoped not, anyway. Someone from another department? A story had once been passed round Whitehall about Helena at the Treasury and the election night pissup in 2001, and everyone knew Saz at the Foreign Office had a doomed crush on Malcolm. His ex-wife? A new girlfriend? Ollie listened closer, against his better judgement.

“Jesus…” Malcolm was moaning. “Fuck, you’re a good boy.”

Well, well, well. So the rumours were true. That narrowed the potential options considerably. Perhaps it was Julius.

No. Malcolm had taste, Ollie would give him that. The thought of Nicholson’s baldie orb of a head bobbing back and forth made his stomach turn.

That only really left- well, the PM. There were rumours about him, too- credible ones. Ones that had come from his wife. What he’d got up to in his uni days, things like that. Malcolm had joked about it. Maybe it wasn’t a joke after all. Maybe this was the PM’s last hurrah, his final thank you and farewell to the man who got him into No. 10. Ollie listened again.

 

“Such a good boy,” Malcolm was saying, and moaning like no one was listening. Well, as far as he was concerned, no one was. Ollie moved closer to the door and listened harder. The moans were rising to a crescendo, he realised. He noticed, with no small amount of discomfort, that he was at half-mast. Maybe it was the ‘good boy’s that Malcolm was now chanting like a prayer. He hadn’t expected to find out that he shared a kink with _Malcolm_ of all people.

And then Malcolm came, and Ollie knew, because he yelled and swore and then began to pant, and then quietly said _good boy_ again.

Ollie high-tailed it after that. If Malcolm was done he and the PM would shortly leave to resume whatever it was that they had to do, and Ollie did _not_ need Malcolm knowing he knew what he knew. He scuttled downstairs and back into the office and when someone asked him where he’d been, he fudged an excuse and blushed scarlet.

He hoped to God his face wouldn’t betray him the next time he saw Malcolm, and tried his hardest to forget what he’d heard.

 

In Malcolm’s office, Jamie MacDonald swallowed the last of his boss’s come and sat back on his haunches.

“You called me a good boy again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Malcolm breathed.

“I’m not the family fucking Airedale.”

“For God’s sake, shut up.”

“You gonnae return the favour?”

“You should be so fucking lucky.” Jamie watched as Malcolm dragged his shirt sleeve across his brow where a film of sweat had formed. He looked ruined, there was no doubt about that, with his suit jacket crumpled on the floor, shirt tails untucked and his tie loosened. Jamie also didn’t doubt that within a matter of five minutes, he would look the same as he had at the start of the evening. Malcolm was like that. Infinitely adaptable. He’d fucked Jamie over the cabinet table once, and ten minutes later the cabinet came in for a meeting, none the wiser.

“Gonnae get up and get out?”

“You want me to go ahead this time?” Jamie said. He was still kneeling at Malcolm’s feet. He would never admit it, but at any given moment, it was number one on his list of places he’d rather be.

“Aye, I need to tidy up in here. Smells like a tart’s purse.”

“I’ll go, then.”

“There’s no need to sound like a lassie I’m kicking out the back door. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“That you will.” Jamie got to his feet. There was a not inconsiderable bulge in his ill-fitting trousers; he would need to wank into a toilet before going back into civilised society (or the closest Whitehall could produce). He turned to go as Malcolm zipped up his flies and turned to the desk to tidy it.

He had his hand on the doorknob when- “Jamie?”

“Any time,” he said, without turning round.


End file.
